reveals:
Gives but a glimpse, and fancy draws
Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.
_The Spider and the Bee_. E. MOORE.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that 's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
_The Passionate Pilgrim_. SHAKESPEARE.

BELL.

Tuned be its metal mouth alone
To things eternal and sublime.
And as the swift-winged hours speed on
May it record the flight of time!
_Song of the Bell_. F. SCHILLER.
_Trans_. E.A. BOWRING.

The bells themselves are the best of preachers,
Their brazen lips are learnèd teachers,
From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air,
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,
Shriller than trumpets under the Law,
Now a sermon and now a prayer.
_Christus: The Golden Legend, Pt. III_.
H.W. LONGFELLOW.

And the Sabbath bell,
That over wood and wild and mountain dell
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy
With sounds most musical, most melancholy.
_Human Life_. S. ROGERS.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
_Tales of a Wayside Inn: The Poet's Tale_.
H.W. LONGFELLOW.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau
If birds confabulate or no.
'T is clear that they were always able
To hold discourse--at least in fable.
_Pairing Time Anticipated_. W. COWPER.

The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove:
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these,
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.
_The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight.
_Spring_. O.W. HOLMES.

One day in the bluest of summer weather,
Sketching under a whispering oak,
I heard five bobolinks laughing together,
Over some ornithological joke.
_Bird Language_. C.P. CRANCH.

Sing away, ay, sing away,
Merry little bird.
Always gayest of the gay,
Though a woodland roundelay
You ne'er sung nor heard;
Though your life from youth to age
Passes in a narrow cage.
_The Canary in his Cage_. D.M. MULOCK CRAIK.

The cook, that is the trumpet to the morn.
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
A wake the god of day.
_Hamlet. Act_ i. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,
Thy home is high in heaven,
Where wide the storms their banners fling.
And the tempest clouds are driven.
_To the Eagle_. J.G. PERCIVAL.

Where, the hawk,
High in the beetling cliff, his aery builds.
_The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

And the, humming-bird that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted honeysuckle horns
They mesmerized and swung
In the palpitating air,
Drowsed with odors strange and rare,
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away
And left him hanging there.
_The South Wind and the Sun_. J.W. RILEY.

Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
_Evangeline, Pt. II_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed.
_The Village Curate_. J. HURDIS.

The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
_Song_. H. COLERIDGE.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale--
Jug, jug, jug, jug--tereu--she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear,
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark! but what a pretty note,
Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
"Cuckoo!" to welcome in the spring.
_Alexander and Campaspe, Act v. Sc. 1_. JOHN LYLY.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

* * * * *

Portend success in love.
_To the Nightingale_. MILTON.

O honey-throated warbler of the grove!
That in the glooming woodland art so proud
Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
Thou dost not own a note we do not love.
_To the Nightingale_. C.T. TURNER.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection.
_Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.
_Macbeth, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE.

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
_The White Devil, Act_ v. _Sc. 2_. J. WEBSTER.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
_Poor Robin_. W. WORDSWORTH.

The swallow twitters about the eaves;
Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear;
Around her climb the woodbine leaves
In a golden atmosphere.
_The Swallow_ C. THAXTER.

The stately-sailing swan
Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale;
And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet
Rears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle,
Protective of his young.
_The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

In the nine heavens are eight Paradises;
Where is the ninth one? In the human breast.
Only the blessèd dwell in the Paradises,
But blessedness dwells in the human breast.
_Oriental Poetry: The Ninth Paradise_. W.R. ALGER.

BLUSH.

Who has not seen that feeling born of flame
Crimson the cheek at mention of a name?
The rapturous touch of some divine surprise
Flash deep suffusion of celestial dyes:
When hands clasped hands, and lips to lips were pressed
And the heart's secret was at once confessed?
_The Microcosm: Man_. A. COLES.

By noting of the lady I have marked
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes.
_Much Ado About Nothing, Act iv. Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,
Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.
The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;
They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,
And flare up bodily, wings and all.
_Aurora Leigh_. E.B. BROWNING.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
_Night Thoughts, Night VII_. DR. E. YOUNG.

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
_Bermudas_. A. MARVELL.

Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie boat,
Just parted from the shore,
And to the fisher's chorus-note,
Soft moves the dipping oar!
_Oh, Swiftly glides the Bonnie Boat_. J. BAILLIE.

Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
_Essay on Man, Epistle III_. A. POPE.

On the great streams the ships may go
About men's business to and fro.
But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep
On crystal waters ankle-deep:
I, whose diminutive design,
Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine,
Is fashioned on so frail a mould,
A hand may launch, a hand withhold:
I, rather, with the leaping trout
Wind, among lilies, in and out;
I, the unnamed, inviolate.
Green, rustic rivers navigate.
_The Canoe Speaks_. R.L. STEVENSON.